That's My Baby
by GrammarDemon
Summary: This particular morning, all Dean Winchster had was a sense of all is well with the world. And shouldn't that have been tip off enough? Because "all is well" is not something in Dean's vocabulary. Or his life, for that matter. And then, he finds a naked babe in the back of the Impala. Which is better than well...but who is she? And what does she want? Besides him, that is...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights to these characters or this storyline. I only wish I did. **

**This takes place during season 9, in between episodes 1 and 2. **

Looking back, Dean realized he should have been more observant to start with. After all, there were angels looking to kill him. Among other things. But that morning—an autumn morning, with the sun shining brightly through the yellow leaves overhead, the air crisp and snapping and the crunch of leaves underfoot—the only thing he had was a sense of _all is well with the world_. And shouldn't that have been tip off enough? Because _all is well_ was not something in Dean Winchester's vocabulary. Or his _life_, for that matter.

He left the Men of Letters' bunker that he shared with his brother, Sam, and headed for their car, wishing—not for the first time—that the builders of their secret, _demon-ghost-boogie- man-and-all-things-creepy_-safe lair had included a garage, somewhere, for Baby. He hated leaving the '67 Impala parked in plain sight. Her presence practically screamed, "Look for the Winchesters here!" to any angels or demons currently hunting them. Sam had suggested camouflaging her with branches-_and leaves!_- but Dean had ganked that idea right away.

For one thing, it might kack her paint. And for another, well…it was just plain lame. What, were they, _twelve_? Hiding the finest piece of Detroit steel ever made with sticks and bushes?

Instead, Dean had warded her with every supernatural protection he could think of, until she was impenetrable and completely safe from any kind of harm. Except the kind caused by humans. But then he'd installed an alarm and even put up a surveillance camera, and then he was certain: his baby was completely, entirely safe. Sammy had muttered something about "why not just marry the thing?" but Dean had ignored him. His brother didn't understand his feelings for the Impala—and he wasn't sure of them, himself. Maybe it was over the top, but maybe…maybe he was just a guy who appreciated an awesome machine.

Which was why he felt more than mildly annoyed when he climbed into the car, turned the key, and _nothing_ happened. _Son of a bitch._

But swearing at her wouldn't help. "C'mon Baby. Turn over for me," he coaxed.

A soft whimper came from the backseat. Instinctively, Dean looked in the rearview mirror; a woman peered back at him. Dean whipped around to face her, reaching into his pocket for a weapon.

Then he stilled. _Wait._ Naked!

Completely, bare ass naked.

And long, dark hair…a delicate face…with huge, dark eyes, and skin only a shade or two lighter than the Impala's buttery –tan colored upholstery. _Yummy._ She had the look he loved in a woman.

Faced with a naked babe in the back seat of his car, Dean Winchester did the only thing he could do: he uttered a curse and doused her with Jesus juice.

The holy water dribbled harmlessly and wonderfully over and around her full breasts and down her satiny, slim stomach…past the place where her navel would be. _If she had one._ _Damn. _"What the _hell_, lady?" he blurted and scrambled out of the car.

Reaching for his angel blade, he told himself it was impossible for an angel to get anywhere near the Impala. That thought stopped him from ripping open the rear door to plunge the knife into her body and send her the hell back to heaven or wherever the angels were, nowadays. Because what _was_ she if the wards didn't work?

He glared in the window at her; she stayed where she was and pressed her hand to the glass, staring out at him, her lips pouty and sad. Like she'd just lost her puppy or something. He knew he should do something-salt her, maybe-but there was something about her that pushed his hero button. _I am such an ass hat._ _And she's a hot babe, no matter what kind of monster she is._ Dean opened the door and held up his hand to help her out.

She momentarily flashed him a sweet view of her nether parts as she swung her long, lean legs around and stood on bare feet; her blue-black hair tumbled in loose waves past her waist and around her hips. Dean's mouth watered; he wanted to lick her all over. More than that. Forget the angel blade. He wanted to plunge _himself_ into her, and stay there for a lifetime.

She wrapped her slender fingers around his hand and she gripped tightly, her scrutiny of him intense. Probably as intense as his of her. His skin tingled, but not in a _warning, danger! _ way. It was more of an _all systems go_ kind of way. This is bad, he thought. Because as potential monsters went, she was the best he'd ever seen.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She reached for him with his other hand; he held up his knife in warning. She ignored it to press her palm to his cheek. No creepy chill, no heat, no warning buzz. She felt…human.

Just to be sure—and because he wasn't an idiot-he stroked the blade over her forearm. Instead of a burst of holy fire, a thin red spurt of blood marred her skin. She gave a startled cry, and tears welled in her big, sparkling dark eyes.

_Aw, hell._ Forget ass hat. He was an ass_hole_, with a capital A. He hated to make pretty naked women cry.

But she didn't let go of him. She just pressed closer and clung to him; her scent reminded Dean of...his car. Made sense, he supposed. She'd been lying in Baby's back seat for God only knew how long, so it was possible she'd absorbed some of the car's ambiance through her pores. Or something.

She rested her cheek against his chest and whimpered. Small and pathetic, the sound practically broke his heart.

I'm sorry," Dean said, fighting the urge to damn all precautions, lift her into his arms and toss her back into the car for further exploration. Because the bottom line was—women didn't turn up in the Impala every day. Unless he invited them there. And they certainly weren't naked, unless he helped them get that way. This was all wrong and he needed to do _something_ to fix it. But then, as a fall-chilled breeze rustled the leaves overhead and the woman's buttery skin dimpled with cold, a compulsion—no, a _conviction_-swelled out of his heart and radiated through him, and he knew it was exactly the right thing to do. Belly button or no belly button, this woman needed his help. He slid out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "Come with me," he said, and led her into the bunker.

* * *

"Dean! Look out!" Sam blurted when he spotted the woman entering the bunker close on his brother's heels.

He immediately felt stupid. And—just as quickly—annoyed. Because the dark-haired beauty was wearing Dean's denim jacket. So he'd obviously invited her into their secret lair without conferring with him first. _Typical._

Then, he noticed the fuzzy black patch of her pubic hair, barely hidden by the hem of the jacket, and all thought and annoyance fled.

_Damn._

He watched them pass by_,_ noted Dean's smug _look–what-_I_-found _expression and the curve of the woman's butt cheeks flashing at him, and her long, lean thighs…and his mouth grew dry.

_Damn!_

"What…what the…who…?" He stumbled over his words. It didn't matter. None of them were adequate anyway.

His brother stopped, and turned. "I know, right? I have no idea. But, I like." He grinned down at her, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Hunting was the last thing on his mind, obviously.

The woman stayed where she was, not turning to look at Sam but staring up at Dean like he was a god. Or something. The hair on the back of Sam's neck prickled. There was something wrong, here. Very wrong. He reached for his holy water.

Dean held up his hand. "Don't bother, Sammy. I already checked." He looked down at her and his expression changed. Sam recognized Dean's _I've got pie!_ face, and his stomach sank.

He tried again. "Where did you find her?"

"In the car." Dean blinked and turned his gaze on Sam, surly again. "Won't start. Want to go check it out?"

Oh…_crap_. It was worse than he'd thought. Dean never let him under the hood. He was so possessive of the Impala, it was borderline psycho. In fact, Sam had often privately mused that if Dean could have sex with the car, he would.

This was often followed by the very uncomfortable thought that _he_ was once he car for a very short time, (thanks to a trickster who wasn't a trickster but turned out to be an angel), followed by a wave of nausea and the desire for a very large glass of scotch. And a beer. _Or six._

_Later. Right now…_ "What do you mean, it won't start?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He was busy staring into the woman's eyes and touching her hair, stroking his fingers down the length of it in a caressing sort of way.

"I'm going to get a drink. You want one?" Sam turned and headed for the liquor cabinet, well-stocked by the Men of Letters and hardly depleted—though that was hard to believe—by the Winchester brothers.

"Nah." Dean murmured. "I'm okay."

_Okay?_ Sam wasn't so sure. Usually, Dean would growl, "it's morning, why don't you wait until noon for Chissake's you freaking boozer," or something as equally grumpy. And under normal circumstances, his brother wouldn't _ever_ let Sam drink before noon—though he himself had enjoyed a liquid breakfast many times. But now…

Dean's voice was soft, gentle, and downright gooey. "I'll fix that up in no time. Just let me get the first aid kit."

Sam feel queasy. He tipped a double-double measure into the tumbler and took a good long gulp, relishing the manly feel of the alcohol's burn, before the meaning of Dean's oogy-sounding mushy gushy words penetrated his disgust.

"First aid…Did she hurt you?" He put the drink down and hurried to his brother's side, trying not to notice the swell of the woman's breasts or the loving way she ran her hands over Dean's chest, and under his shirt.

"Do I look injured?" Dean grouched. "No, it's for… her." He gently lifted her arm and tugged at his jacket's sleeve; Sam saw the blood still welling from the gash on her forearm.

His heart sank. Demons, he could deal with. Angels, too. Ghosts, shifters, vampires, Leviathans…all these, he could handle. But this… He couldn't stop the note of worry that crept into his voice. "She's _human_?"

_Oh, God._ This was worse than a legion of demons. She could be from their legion of _fans_. Another stalker. _Another_ _Becky!_ "That's it. I know you won't like it, but I'm calling the cops." He reached for his cell.

"No! Sam. Wait. She's…well, she doesn't have a belly button." Dean barely turned his attention from her.

A moment of relief. Sort of. No bellybutton meant not a Becky-clone, and that was good. Better, it was a clue to what she was and, even more importantly—how they could get rid of her. Sam leaned in, reaching to spread the front of the jacket and see for himself. "Really? That's odd. What do you think-"

But then Dean slapped the back of Sam's hand, grabbed the edges of denim and held it tightly closed over the woman's body, pushing him back and stepping in front her her—a human shield.

Sam grit his teeth. _Stupid hero complex. _

"No. You'll just have to take my word for it, Sammy."

"Dude. Seriously?" Sam stepped away, the annoyance back ten –fold. "You don't see how weird this is?"

"Of course I do. We've cornered the market on weird. But she's hurt and she's…she's…" He trailed off as the woman put her hands on his waist; she smiled over his left shoulder at Sam and radiated quiet delight as she rested her cheek on Dean's shoulder blade. Without another word, Dean reached back to take her hand and led her off to his room. He closed the door firmly behind them. Sam heard its lock click into place.

* * *

"Whatsa matter, Moose? Trouble in paradise?" Crowley crowed from his chair in the center of the demon trap as Sam entered the storage room. Where they'd stored the King of Hell. _For now._

Sam decided not to take the bait. Instead, moved to the shelf where Dean had put the Impala's tool box. The fact that his brother apparently didn't care that Baby wasn't running was just as troubling as everything else which had occurred in the past half hour. _There._ He spotted the box behind bottles of windshield wiper fluid and gallon containers of motor oil.

The King of Hell continued his chatter. "Good thing the walls are mostly soundproof. Not that it does _me_ any good, of course. I can hear everything. But it spares you from having to listen." He seemed more stoked than he had in days.

Sam turned to glare at him.

Crowley tilted his head, honing in on Dean's bedroom activities with a cocky grin. After a moment, however, he reared back as if slapped. "Oh! No. No! That's just wrong." Another moment passed; he crinkled his nose and shook his head like a dog sprayed by a skunk. "Disgusting." He looked at Sam. "I can't believe what he's doing in there!"

"For once, we agree on something." Sam heaved the tools from the shelf and hurried from the room.

* * *

The Impala was dead. No matter what Sam did, he couldn't make the car work. It wouldn't turn over at all, even though everything appeared to be in good shape and order. What was needed was his brother's touch—Dean had always managed to coax the Impala to life, even when things seemed the most dire. Even when she'd been completely totaled after an encounter with a demon-driven eighteen-wheeler, he'd made her like new and better than ever.

But there was no sign of Dean when Sam re-entered the bunker, and there was no way he was going to knock on his door and interrupt...whatever was going on in Dean's room. Instead, he put his head down and hurried past, lest he overheard something. He slipped into the store room to put the tools away; Crowley was slouched in the chair in the center of the demon trap, looking miserable.

"Make it stop," he moaned. "Please, Moose. I'm begging you. Man to man. This is torture."

Again, we agree, Sam thought, and dropped the box onto the shelf with a bang and a clank. "Sorry, Crowley."

"I mean it, man," Crowley said. "Dean Winchester. Even in Hell, he's got a reputation as a bad ass. So you'd think he'd be into something more…_interesting_ in the bedroom, right? A little domination, spanking, whips, chains, spurs…anything. But this? What the hell, Moose? Your brother has sex like a _girl_!"

Sam swung around. "What do you mean?" If Crowley was knocking Dean's manhood…

"_I fink I wuv oo._ _Yes I do. Uh-huh_." The demon king's face crumpled and he made wretching noises. "Fecking nauseating is what it is."

"Dean? _Baby_ talk?"

"Revolting. Truly revolting."

Sam shook his head. "I don't believe you."

Crowley scowled. "I don't care if you believe me or not, I'm telling the truth. Listen, if I were human, I'd be in a sugar coma right now. He's being so sweet to her! It's rainbows and puppies and unicorns in there!"

_Eww. That _is_ gross. Still_…"You think he _shouldn't_ be nice to her?"

"Well, since you asked… Do you have any idea who she even is? What she is? _Why_ she is?"

Sam straightened from his slouch against the shelves. "Do you?"

Crowley smirked. "Make it stop, and I'll tell you."

"No way." Sam started walking; if Crowley really was desperate enough, he'd crack and tell what he knew. Otherwise, it wasn't worth knowing anything about the mystery girl. Sam sauntered past him and was rewarded by the clattering of warded handcuffs.

"Stop! All right. I'll tell you. But only if you promise to make him stop."

Sam grinned. _Gotcha._ He was about to agree to let His Majesty spill all when the phone in his pocket chirped the ringtone he'd assigned to Garth, the new, self-proclaimed Hunter Organizer. "Aww. Sorry, Crowley. Got to take this."

"Bloody hell," Crowley groaned, and closed his eyes. "I'm going to vomit. And it won't be pea soup."

"Good. Hey Garth, what's up?" Sam closed the door behind him as he left the King of Hell in the dark.

"Where's Dean? I've been calling him for hours and keep getting his voice mail."

"Hello to you, too." Sam settled into a chair.

"Oh. Yeah. Hi," Garth said. "I have a job for you."

Sam slanted a glance at Dean's door. Still shut tight. "I don't know if we're up to it, right now."

"Darn. I don't have anyone else in your area. Why? You guys sick or something?"

"Well…something like that." _Love sick. Or some kind of sick. Too many sweets, maybe? _ Sam grinned to himself as he heard Crowley moan and rattle his chains again. "Mostly, we're down on transportation."

"Car trouble, huh? You never let that stop you before. Can't you boost a ride?"

"Maybe." Sam sighed. That would mean a long walk into town. Then again, what else was there to do? He didn't want to stay here with all the rainbows, puppies and unicorns in the next room. What the hell. He'd bite. "What's going on?"


	2. Chapter 2

**If you like, please review! Even if you don't like, please review. This is my first foray into fanfic, so I want to know what you think. Thank you for reading!**

Wrapped in his dead-guy robe, Dean stepped out of his room and closed the door carefully. He didn't want to wake her. His mystery, no-belly button girl. She didn't talk, which made things difficult, but then again it made _her_ nearly perfect, so he wasn't going to complain.

No. Scratch that. She _was_ perfect. He grinned to himself, hugging the railing as he made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. His legs were rubbery. After a little snack, he'd join her in the sack and take a long, restorative snooze.

The lair was quiet and the lights dim. He wasn't sure if motion lights had been available in 19-whatever-year this place was built, but their Batcave seemed to have them, and the overheads and wall sconces were dimmed, popping on only as he walked by. Which meant that Sam hadn't been around for a while.

Dean wondered where he was as he opened their vintage fridge. Thank God the Men of Letters had had the foresight to install a unit that didn't require a daily delivery of ice blocks. Hell, no. It still worked great, too. He'd once heard someone complain that their fridge had only lasted ten years, that they were made to crap out after that short a time. But not this one. Nope, it still chilled the brews to the perfect temperature even after seventy-five years or so of service.

They were nearly out of brews, now that he'd thought of it. Maybe that's where Sammy'd gone: on a booze run. Dean closed the fridge door and frowned. Baby hadn't been working, come to think of it, so Sam probably had to hike to the nearby town and back again. Something that he probably shouldn't be doing even with an angel riding shotgun on his shoulder. Unless…maybe his brother had gotten the car up and running again. Doubtful. Sam was brilliant with the books but lacked a mechanical touch. Of course, that may have been only because Dean never let him under Baby's hood-

"Deeeeen." He heard a soft, husky purr from the doorway.

_Her._ It was her, and she knew his name, and her voice was like a blended single malt over crushed ice, and he wanted her. Right on top of the vintage fridge because the top was warm and it vibrated so, so perfectly. Whatever. Sammy would be fine. In fact, the longer he stayed out, the better, because Dean wanted to try out the countertop, too. And the island in the center of the room. And there was a can of whipped cream they could utilize—he turned to look at his girl and opened his arms wide. "C'mere, Baby."

* * *

Dean rolled over and stretched the stretch of the truly happy. Merry Christmas to freakin' me, he thought. He had everything he'd ever wanted but never wanted to admit to anyone but himself: a place to call home (with a memory foam mattress—memories now included!), and a long, lean, beautiful babe who was willing to please him in every way possible.

Including helping him clean the whipped cream off the kitchen floor before accompanying him back to his room for a nice cuddle. Okay, that last bit no one needed to know about, but it was like a stocking stuffer in his Merry Christmas fantasy, something he never asked for but was happy to get and pleased to enjoy. He turned his head to see her smiling at him from their shared pillow, her dark eyes twinkling like faceted diamonds. _Hm. Weird. Whatever._

"Dean," she said in that husky purr of hers. "Hi." She didn't even have morning breath.

The babe just got better and better. True, she _had_ started talking during the night, but at least she wasn't yammering away with some chick crap that made his head ache.

"Hi." He shifted his arm to get her better situated, hoping _he_ didn't have morning breath. "You hungry?"

"For you."

_Again? She's insatiable._ She keeps on running and never stops, he thought, followed by _I can't believe I just thought that._ But… he was _hungry_. "I've got Lucky Charms."

"Yes, you do," she said, and he felt her hand, moving between his thighs to palm the boys. "Big ones."

_Ouch. Tender._ Was that even possible? Had they done it _that_ much that his junk was sensitive to the touch? _Whatever._ He gave her the smile he thought she might be seeking. _"I wuv oo," _he said. And, he realized, he meant it. She was awesome. Better than awesome. She was the woman of his dreams, and then some.

"An' I wuv oo." She melted into him.

In the distance, Dean thought he heard a violent retching sound. But that wasn't possible. The bunker was practically soundproof.

Then again, maybe Sam was sick and puking right outside his door.

He untangled himself from the woman and got to his feet. A random thought crossed his mind. He couldn't keep calling her "the woman". Especially after all the memory-mattress riding they'd done. "What's your name, anyway?" He reached for his robe; it wasn't at the foot of the bed any more. A quick search found it draped over a floor lamp. The belt was missing. _Damn. That's right._ Sometime during the night they'd played a little game he liked to call Pin the Tail on the Babe, but they'd stopped soon after he'd tripped over a box of Men of Letters crap and bruised his shin on the radiator. So where had he dropped it…?

"You don't want me?" She knelt on the bed and pouted, arching her back so that her perfectly- formed breasts rounded and her dusky-colored nipples pointed upwards in a mouth-watering kind of way.

He tried to ignore them. "I do. I do! I just…I think my brother is puking out there. I haven't seen him in…I dunno. A few hours, anyway, and I want to check in."

"Sam's a big boy. He can take care of himself." She slid her hands under her boobs and pushed upwards, offering them to him. "I need you to take care of me."

Dean stared. _Best. Hooters. Ever._ And he'd seen a lot of them. Maybe he hadn't heard Sammy hurling out there. Maybe it had been his imagination. Maybe…maybe she was right and his brother could take care of himself because honestly, a damsel in need was a damsel indeed. Right? "Your wish is my command," he said, dropping his robe to the floor and kicking it under the bed.

* * *

"Garth!" Sam choked into the phone. "Call Dean. I need him. Now!"

"What—he's not with you?" Garth answered. "Where are you? Where is he? And why aren't you using your cell? I can't get a read on your GPA."

"Um…" Sam swallowed. "I'm in jail."

"What?" Garth's reedy voice rose to a shriek. "Dude! How did that happen?"

"It doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is—I need to get bailed out and I can't reach Dean. They're not going to give me another chance with the phone." He peered over his shoulder and winked at the female cop; she was surveilling his backside and fingering her baton thoughtfully. But her shift was ending and the brutish officer about to take her place probably wouldn't be susceptible to Sam's charm. Or his butt. At least, he _hoped_ not. He shuddered. "I don't want to stay here much longer."

"Why doesn't Dean answer his phone?"

"Because. He's obsessed. With a woman. And get this—" he lowered his voice—"She's got no belly button."

"Duuude. Seriously?"

"You ever hear of such a thing?"

"Well, yeah, sure. But—"

"Can you get me out of here?"

"I'll see what I can do." Garth hung up, leaving Sam holding a dead receiver. He peered over his shoulder again to see the big, scary-looking cop surveying his ass, licking his lips and fingering _his_ baton thoughtfully. He noticed Sam looking at him and winked. _Shit. Oh…shit._ He hoped Garth moved fast.

* * *

"Seriously? Federal custody? You _do_ realize you've made it impossible for me to show my face anywhere in this town again, don't you?" Sam followed Garth out of the police station, trying not to appear so tall next to the slender man in the badly-tailored black suit.

"Relax," Garth held up a long, thin hand. "I told them you were-" he paused, looked around and for eavesdroppers and continued in a whisper- "In the Witness Protection Program."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That helps."

"Otherwise, you would have had trouble. Now they'll give you a wide berth and let you continue on with the secret life you're living." He continued on down the wide stone steps. "As long as you don't get caught trying to boost another car."

"Sure." Sam wondered if he could strangle Garth and get away with _that_.

"This is a nice little town you're in," Garth said.

"It's not bad." _Could be better. Won't be, now._ Sam cursed his luck. _Arrested._ _Carless. Dean-less. _And now, he had several admirers on the police force. Although once he put the stick down and stopped winking suggestively, Hanson wasn't so bad. He might even prove useful, someday. "So are you going to hang around? Help me hunt this thing you called me about?"

"Yeah. But first-" Garth shrugged his shoulders into the jacket and still managed to look like a kid wearing his dad's clothes— "Let's go see what's got your brother." He strode off.

Sam stared at the retreating geek. Got my… "Wait. Are you serious?" He shook himself and hurried after him to his car, if you could call an AMC Pacer a car. It looked like a mutant soccer ball.

Garth opened the huge hatchback and, taking off the jacket, hung it on a hanger which he placed on a bar stretching from one window to the back. His closet, Sam realized. "Of course I'm serious," he said, yanking off his red tie and tossing it onto a mound of assorted neckwear.

Sam realized Garth was about to strip off his white shirt—right here on Main Street—and held up his index finger. "Dude. Don't you think you should wait to change until we get somewhere else?" Where the memory of a scrawny white guy wouldn't be scorched into the psyche of everyone passing by, potentially scarring them for life? And—worse—blow his FBI credibility for miles around?

"Oh. Yeah, good idea." He closed the hatchback and moved around to the driver's side.

Sam climbed into the passenger side. "Didn't these cars have a reputation of blowing up and killing all occupants during rear-end collisions?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't ordinarily research things like that. What I _have_ researched is belly buttonless beauties." Garth turned the key in the ignition, and the car sputtered, coughed, and started with a squeal. He revved the motor until it raced, then eased off the gas. The car settled down, though there was a squeaking sound emerging from under the hood.

"Sounds like your squirrel's about to die."

Garth fixed Sam with a steady, annoyed stare. "Just because my car's not _hot_ like yours and Dean's doesn't mean she doesn't have feelings."

"I'm sorry." Sam blinked, feeling contrite. And confused. "Feelings?"

"Yes. She may not be beautiful to you, but she is, to me. And—unlike your car, may I point out—_Glenda _currently runs. Squirrel or no squirrel." He put her into drive, and she pulled away from the curb with a clanking groan.

_Glenda?_ Sam felt like a jerk…but he still could imagine a squirrel on a wheel under the hood, no matter what. "Sorry, Garth. And you, too. Glenda." He settled into the seat and hoped they didn't get rear-ended on the way back to the bunker.

* * *

"Sweet," Garth commented as they entered the the Men of Letters building. "Hot car, hot babes, hot…well, _nice-_ digs. I need to hang around with you guys more often. You keep turning up lucky."

Sam nodded in response. The Impala still sat where it had been parked the day before, which meant Dean hadn't gotten it up and running. There were no signs he'd even tried. And the bunker looked exactly the same.

"Dean!" He hurried to his brother's door and pounded on it. Nothing. The room could have been empty. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kind of feeling that called for immediate action. "Step back," he advised Garth, standing nearby, and he broke the door in.

The room was dark and smelled of sweat, sex and…cherry pie filling?

"What the hell!" Dean sat up in the bed; the unnamed woman-monster sat up beside him. She didn't cover her breasts like a normal—real—woman would, but Sam noticed she _did_ wrap herself around his brother in a way that reminded him of a boa constrictor. "Was that entirely necessary? You broke my door!"

"Did you notice I never returned last night? I was in jail, and you didn't even answer your phone!" Sam turned on the light and immediately wished he hadn't. Cherry pie filling stains in the shape of butt cheeks covered the blanket at the foot of his brother's bed. "Dude. Are you kidding me?"

Dean blinked against the white, daylight bulb he'd installed in the overhead socket. His skin was pale, his eyes and cheeks sunken…

Sam realized with horror that his brother looked more like a corpse than a living man. "Have you been at it this whole time?"

Garth stepped into the room and looked around. "Hey, Dean."

"Excuse me. A little privacy, here?" Dean put his hand on the calves of the incredible twining woman whose legs were wrapped around his mid-section; her hands emerged from under his arms and her fingertips met at the center of his bared chest. She moved her head around his and reached so that she could caress his earlobe with her tongue, and he tipped his head back to allow her better access. He moaned.

_Oh, eurgh_. "Dean!" Sam barked in a voice that sounded more like a scold even to his own ears, but to no avail. His brother kept on moaning and she kept on doing revolting things with his ear with her tongue. _I'm going to be sick._ He turned to look at the other hunter; Garth stood, staring at the couple, his face turning an alarming shade of red. A vein bulged in his forehead.

Sam pushed Garth from the room before his head exploded. "You see what I'm saying, right? What do you think?"

"Wow," Garth said. "I think your brother is the luckiest guy on the face of the earth." He sighed. "I hate him."

Sam leaned the remains of the door against the busted frame. "You're not serious."He frowned. A lot of help breaking the door down had been. Now they'd be able to _hear_ whatever cherry filling fantasy was going to go on in Dean's room, and that wasn't good.

For one thing, he'd never be able to eat pie again.

For another…it was just wrong. "He didn't even care that I'd been in jail."

"Can you blame him?" Garth leaned close to the broken door, listening intently. "Wait. I think I know what they're doing, now…"

"Dude! Focus! You have to help me figure out what's going on. He can't keep going on like this. It's not normal. Or healthy." Sam grabbed Garth's arm and pulled him down the stairs, away from Dean's room.

"I don't know about that. He's doing what any guy would do when a beautiful naked woman wraps herself around him. I mean, she obviously wants him, and if he's able to comply, then—why not?"

"To the exclusion of everything else?" Sam opened his laptop on one of the tables and booted it up. "I have to figure out what she is. I mean, did you see him? It's like she's sucking the life out of him."

Garth tilted his head. "Or _something_."

"I'm not even going to go there." Sam typed _oversexed female _into his search engine. Predictably, _nymph_ came up. But the woman's behavior didn't fit the description—unless you focused on Victorian literature, because then _every_ woman was oversexed.

Garth wandered to the book shelves; before long, the table was full of opened volumes. But they had nothing useful. Sam leaned back in his chair and pressed his palms to his eye sockets. He hadn't slept well in the jail cell and everything was starting to blur. He'd told Dean he was feeling fine after his trials, but he'd lied. He wasn't fine. He felt…disembodied, if that made any sense, as if he was fighting for space in his own shell, and was ready to pop out any second. But any time he tried to work on it, something—in his own head—would work to distract him. Like someone was whispering to him from inside his own brain, until he couldn't think.

Lying on the cot in the cell, he'd tried. With nothing better to do, he'd attempted again and again to figure out what was different, and why he thought he might feel…possessed. But he came up with nothing. Just the odd, full feeling in his body and the knowledge that his brain that didn't work right, anymore.

Garth got up; Sam heard the scrape of the chair on the floor. "This place is awesome. Would you mind if I looked around?"

"No, go ahead." He rubbed at his eyes. They were gritty, and they hurt. "Knock yourself out."

"Cool." The other hunter wandered off. Sam leaned down to rest his forehead on the book in front of him, wishing he could just suck the knowledge out of it. Maybe there wasn't any problem with his brain; maybe it was as simple as him just needed glasses. He wondered if they had vision care coverage on one of their stolen health care plans.

He couldn't ask Dean, who was turning into a sex zombie. Was there such a thing?

Sam lay still, inhaling the warm, dry scent of book dust under his nose and wishing, for the zillionth time, that he wasn't a hunter and that he and his family were normal and oblivious to the supernatural world, like everyone else. He'd be married, by now, probably. Maybe with a kid. And a dog. Definitely a dog. He'd always wanted a dog. Even a little one, a terrier of some sort, would be nice. He and Jess would go to a shelter and pick one—he'd look for a dog who enjoyed a nice belly rub.

He sighed and listened to the sounds of doors opening and closing as Garth poked around. As long as he stayed out of the store room and away from Crowley, they'd be all set…_oh, shit_. A feeling of dread settled over his shoulders and his stomach clenched, because he knew—so predictable, really—that's _exactly_ which door Garth was opening, now.

"Hello there." Sam heard Crowley's gravelly, accented voice say. "My, my, my. Don't _you_ look like something the cat dragged in?"


End file.
